


I do occasionally eat meat

by Codango



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Chefs, Cooking, First Meetings, Flirting, M/M, Modeling, Neighbors, rated for language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-14 08:04:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7161632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Codango/pseuds/Codango
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Laurent stared at the glossy ad on his kitchen counter. It had fallen out of the pack that the local newspaper shoved in his mailbox every Tuesday. It was for a new boutique menswear shop. Grand opening this weekend, apparently.</p><p>He wiped his hands on his apron — bespoke canvas, from a local craftsman — and flipped a couple pages back in his cooking quarterly. This time, the ad was for a small but expensive brand of men’s watch.</p><p>Laurent wondered if the beefcake smirking seductively in both ads knew anything about either running a small business or cooking. He narrowed his eyes. The watch looked like it barely fit around the man’s wrist. What a... behemoth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I do occasionally eat meat

Laurent stared at the glossy ad on his kitchen counter. It had fallen out of the pack that the local newspaper shoved in his mailbox every Tuesday. It was for a new boutique menswear shop. Grand opening this weekend, apparently.

He wiped his hands on his apron — bespoke canvas, from a local craftsman — and flipped a couple pages back in his cooking quarterly _._ This time, the ad was for a small but expensive brand of men’s watch.

Laurent wondered if the beefcake smirking seductively in both ads knew anything about either running a small business or cooking. He narrowed his eyes. The watch looked like it barely fit around the man’s wrist. What a... behemoth.

Nicaise sauntered across the countertop, sniffed the cooking magazine, and sat his ass directly over the beefcake’s face.

“You know you’re not allowed up here.” Laurent stroked the Siamese’s fur. “But well put.” He turned his attention back to the roulade he was experimenting with. The cafe’s menu was due for a seasonal change in two weeks, and he was onto something promising.

* * *

 

The trickiest thing about running a restaurant whose selling point was local and seasonal food was _sourcing_ the goddamn stuff. And sometimes that meant — Laurent’s grimace tightened — farmers markets.

He pushed his sunglasses up his nose. _God save us all._ A pasty woman with hair dyed too dark was complaining that the price of strawberries at these things was “atrocious. Really, they don’t taste any different from the ones at the supers.” Her three children cast longing looks at the candied-almonds seller as she herded them past.

Laurent slipped by her to his favorite greens grocer. If you couldn’t taste the difference between berries cultivated to withstand days of travel in a truck and varieties that were too delicate to stand up to transport _and had also been on the vine the night before_ , then yes, perhaps your money was better spent at the supers.

“Laurent.” The blonde woman behind the greens stall nodded at him. She didn’t pause as she bundled young rocket.

“Jokaste. When you have a moment.” He’d been a faithful customer for three years, since the days when the cafe was little more than a wet dream. They seemed to appreciate each other’s reliability, but he’d never felt the need to be overly friendly. He wondered, occasionally, if Jokaste rather appreciated that.

When she did look up at him wordlessly, hands finally still, Laurent began, “Of the rocket, I need four—”

A sharp shove firmly on his ass sent him crashing into the booth. Both hands crushed two bundles of Bibb lettuce, and his sunglasses fell off his nose.

“Ohhhh my god, I’m so sorry, man! _Nicky_ , bad! Bad Nicky!”

“ _What_ the—” Laurent shoved himself off the table and spun around. A fucking horse disguised as a slobbery dog was doing his best to launch a second attack, but he was being held back by... “hell.”

The beefcake behemoth looked singularly distraught. “I am _so_ sorry!” he spluttered. Again. “Nicky, _stay down._ He’s really friendly, I swear, it’s just... he’s so _big_ and just not, um, trained very well.”

Laurent raised an eyebrow, watching burly shoulders and biceps like rugby balls keep the dog on the ground. “I see that.” _Mr. Beefcake is... a local_? That would explain the ad in the city paper, but the magazine had national circulation—

“Is anything damaged?” the model-slash-barbarian asked worriedly. “I can pay for—”

Jokaste held up the distressed bundles of lettuce. Laurent admired how much the woman could communicate with the iciest of glances.

“O-oh. Yes, of course, how much can I—?”

“Put them in my bag, Jokaste.” To his horror, Laurent saw himself place his reusable cloth shopping bag on the booth. “I felt like salad this evening.” He didn’t, and this was way more than could be used in a single salad. “And then four of the rocket,” he went on, as though his entire consciousness wasn’t zeroed in on the man next to him, “and do you have any kale or has it bolted?”

“Um.”

Laurent allowed himself the barest side glance. Beefcake was taller than he was by a head, so Laurent got an eyeful of pecs like two pork roasts under a T-shirt. The shirt was for a band he didn’t recognize, distressed around the tight collar and sleeves. Models were supposed to be elfen and ethereal, to the best of his understanding, not finalists in Ironman competitions.

“I’m really sorry about my dog,” the man said again, and Laurent looked up into his face. Brown eyes were huge and worried and disgustingly attractive. “Is there... are you okay?”

“My ass has been through worse.” Laurent watched Beefcake’s reaction, purely for scientific reasons. Not at all because he wanted to know how the man would respond to a blatant innuendo like that _._

“A... _ha_.” Beefcake straightened from his overly conscientious posture. He scanned Laurent from head to toe. “Well, that is certainly good to know.” A single grin should not hold so many blindingly white teeth.

So... gay then. Or, at minimum, definitely interested in men. Not that _Laurent_ was interested. In this particular man. He turned to Jokaste. Her face gave the impression she had just finished rolling her eyes. She held out his bags. “Twelve,” she said, succinct as ever. Laurent reached for his wallet.

“No, no, please.” Beefcake put a hand on his wrist. Laurent gaped at the massive paw.

“You are not paying for my entire bag,” Laurent managed to protest. Rather firmly, he was pleased to hear, despite the latent strength of a grizzly attached to his arm. “I got more than just—”

“Please. Let me feel better about myself. I’m sorry, there’s fifteen...” Beefcake handed Jokaste a couple bills. Unperturbed, she began making change. “So are you a vegetarian?”

Laurent blinked up at him. “Because I’m buying lettuce?” Surely the man wasn’t _that_ much of a bro. What a waste of—

“You have enough lettuce there to choke a colony of rabbits,” Beefcake pointed out.

“Or feed a lunch rush of regulars who adore my kale apricot salad, but what are units of measurement?” What. _What._ One dog shoved him into a green grocers stand, and Laurent had lost all control of his mouth. As well as his ability to keep details of his personal life to himself, apparently.

Beefcake’s eyes lit up. “You run a restaurant? That’s incredible! Where?”

“So, yes, I _do_ occasionally eat meat,” Laurent went on. He put on his best stoneface. “If the quality’s good.”

Beefcake’s expression suddenly looked far too intelligent. “Huh. What a coincidence. Same.”

Sometimes retreat really was the only answer. “Thank you, Jokaste. Next time.” Laurent turned to go.

“Wait.” Beefcake angled himself just enough to hint at blocking Laurent’s exit. “You’re really not going to tell me where your place is?”

“There are only 1,952 restaurants in town.” Laurent adjusted his sunglasses and walked around the human mountain. “Make sure the dog stays at home when you find it please.” He managed six satisfied steps before he heard:

“His name is Nicky, by the way!”

* * *

 

Laurent had no room in his life for boring salads. If dinner _was_ going to consist of enough lettuce to choke a colony of rabbits, a damn fine dressing was in order. He gave the sauce pan a stir. Olive oil, honey, lime, jalapeño...

Of course, man could not live by beautifully dressed veggies alone. Laurent glanced at the deep fryer. The oil was almost hot enough. Arancini was the only thing for last week’s rice.

A meow made him look up. Nicaise was staring at him through the sliding glass door to the balcony.

“You’re done?” Laurent wiped his hands and threw the towel over his shoulder. He opened the door. “Please refrain from getting underfoot, Your Majesty, I’m very busy—”

Someone was leaning over his neighbor’s balcony railing, hand still outstretched in classic ‘here kitty kitty’ pose. Someone with biceps like rugby balls.

Beefcake stared up at him from his awkward bend over the railing.

Nicaise curled around Laurent’s ankles. “My, my.” Laurent heard his own voice. It sounded dry and unsurprised and not at all indicative of his current mental state. “I was wondering when that apartment would fill.”

“I... I’ve...” Beefcake swallowed hard and finally stood. “Been here for a couple weeks now? Technically? I’ve just... been busy, so I’m only here in the evenings, and — shit, _you’re_ the cook next door?”

Laurent refused to show surprise. “I am next door. I am a cook.” _Chef_ , but he wouldn’t be that pedantic. Yet.

“My god.” Were all of the man’s smiles ordained by heaven? “My personal trainer hates you.”

 _... Just go back inside, what is this nonsense._ Laurent crossed his arms. “Do tell.” _No. Don’t do tell. What an insulting..._

Forearms with veins like ropes leaned against the railing. Laurent recognized that under-the-lashes look from the watch ad in his cooking magazine. “You realize the entire building can probably smell when you cook?” the man asked. “I swear everyone opens their windows. And I am not going to tell you how much weight I’ve gained from giving into cravings induced by your cooking.”

“How convenient, since I didn’t ask.” Really? He’d gained weight? _Where?_

Dark eyes glanced from the towel on Laurent’s shoulder to the spoon in one hand. “Cooking tonight?” he asked, the hope almost successfully disguised as polite curiosity.

“Salad.”

Surprise shone on the man’s face, followed by utter glee. “Salad? After you bit my head off this morning when I asked if you were vegetarian?”

Laurent forced back a blush with sheer willpower. “Not all of us can exist on protein shakes, I’m afraid.”

“The chocolate ones are best.” Beefcake’s grin made it clear he’d noticed that Laurent had noticed his body. “I’m Damen.”

“I’m busy.” Laurent turned on his heel. He took care not to shut Nicaise’s tail in the sliding door.

He fussed over the deep fryer. Probably forty seconds of heat, wasted. He floated three rice balls in the oil, smiling at the instant sizzle. The trick with deep frying was to make sure that everything cooked inside while the batter didn’t burn, so careful attention had to be—

_Knock!Knock!_

Nicaise gave his customary yowl, as though Laurent could possibly miss hearing the front door.

“My god, now?” Laurent glared at his fryer. Two minutes. They wouldn’t burn in two minutes, and that should be more than enough time to turn away whatever solicitor had managed to sneak into the building. The towel went back on his shoulder.

“Yes, ye—the hell?”

“Hear me out.” Damen held a bottle of wine in both hands. _Pinot noir._ Far too sharp for arancini. Damen inhaled deeply and flashed another camera-worthy smile. “Hi! I’m your new neighbor. Moved in a couple weeks ago, been busy, but happy to make your acquaintance at last, would you like a guinea pig for your cooking?”

Laurent stared.

The wine bottle didn’t waver.

“I believe,” Laurent began, “the custom is for the _new_ resident to receive the housewarming gifts.”

“Is that how it works?” Damen was a terrible actor. “I’ve never been great at tradition.”

“Uh huh.” Laurent leaned a shoulder into his doorframe. “Well, _traditionally,_ the new person waits to be invited to his neighbor’s place.”

“Ah, I did know about that part. So I am.”

“... This is you waiting? Good god, what does it look like when you—” Laurent stopped himself.

Damen’s face, unfairly seductive at its most innocent, looked like he knew Laurent’s internet history and approved of all of it. “Yes?” he encouraged.

Laurent yanked the bottle from his hands and shoved away from the door. “We can’t have this with arancini. What are you, a college student?”

“Not far removed from one, you’ll be happy to know. Oh, hi there!”

Laurent glanced over his shoulder on his way to the kitchen. Damen was kneeling on the floor of his den, cooing at Nicaise. _Why, you little traitor._ Laurent scooped the slightly-too-brown rice balls onto a clean towel. _You sat your furry little ass on his glossy print face just this morning._

“Seeing as I wasn’t expecting guests,” Laurent called. “I hope you like salad and rice. No meat tonight, I’m afraid.”

“Well.” Damen looked up from the tiny car engine that was Nicaise. His smile was ruthless, and Laurent was unable to hold back the blush this time. “Perhaps not tonight.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was very super loosely done for this prompt:
> 
> [‘My job requires that I stay in shape yet you torture me with the most amazing food smells WHY’ AU](http://sciencefictioness.tumblr.com/post/145311289805/apartment-building-aus)
> 
> Trying to get my writing brain back in gear, so I thought I'd try out a simple Damen/Laurent oneshot. Nothing complex here.
> 
> [@codango](http://codango.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr
> 
> [Marcella Christie](http://marcellachristie.com/) for my alter ego


End file.
